


Clink78

by AliceAvis



Category: How to Train Your Dragon - Fandom, rise of the guardians
Genre: Fluff, Language, London, M/M, Modern AU, Smut, youth hostel AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:01:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2350961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceAvis/pseuds/AliceAvis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack's an American with too much time on his hands. Hiccup's a Norwegian university student on holiday in London. They meet in Clink78, the youth hostel that used to be a prison. And the city takes them on a wild adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clink78

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my submission for the HiJack Big Bang! Yayyyyyyy! I decided to do something light and fluffy this time around. It's more of a series of snapshots, all put together to make this grand adventure of love, friendship, smut, and the craziness that is HiJack. Some of these little adventures actually happened when I went to London once xD. Anywho, enjoy! :)
> 
> Beta: Ben/driftinginfocus  
> Artist/s: Marsh/marseeargh and writer786
> 
> PS: I should have some art up soon from my artists. So keep an eye out!

One strand of white hair.

It falls on Hiccup's open sketchbook. Almost invisible. But it stands out against the thick, black charcoal. A scar, a line of white noise, a scratch down a linoleum countertop.

"Hey, there."

Oh, the tree from which the white hair fell. Hiccup recognizes the American accent. Jeans ripped at the knees show bloodstained bandages with Dora the Explorer's face on them.

"Hey. There."

He says it with a smile. A dying cigarette wiggles between white teeth. Hiccup glances over his glasses. Hmm, nice. Very nice, indeed. He's never been with an American before. But from what people have told him, their national symbol should be a tiger in heat. He looks the American up and down.

Silence.

"Hey, there?"

Let's mess with this guy. Just stare and blink with those empty, green eyes. Hiccup bites his lips and goes back to his drawing.

"Hey? There?"

Hiccup pauses for a moment, then draws a winky face in the right-hand corner.

The cigarette twitches. "Hey—"

"Are you just going to keep saying that?"

"Saying what?"

Groaning, Hiccup slams his pencil down, accidentally stabbing himself in the palm. Shit, shit, shit, shit. He grits his teeth. "You keep saying 'hey, there' and I'm obviously busy."

Cigarette guy shrugs. "So what?"

"So… maybe you should just give up."

"But I just wanted to tell you something."

Hiccup rolls his eyes. "I don't want to hear it."

"Okay. Fine."

And with a final shrug, he's gone. Leaning against the no-smoking sign that's plastered on the wall. A half hour passes. People come and go. Someone asks Hiccup for directions to the nearest Pound Saver. He draws them a detailed map.

The sun climbs higher and the heat simmers.

The artist sits on the top step and draws in silence. The cigarette kid smokes two more and never takes his eyes off the sky.

One more cigarette butt stomped into the ground.

Jack sighs, the smoke curls around his cheekbones. That sexy artist sure is passionate. Passionate about broken pencils and crumpled paper and silence that weighs heavier than a ton of bricks. All Jack wants to say is 'hey, there, your shoe's untied' but he'll keep quiet.

Eyes on the pale sky, like someone sucked out all the color with an eyedropper. Eyes on the watch for pedestrians sign and the white stripes in the street that tell you to look left and right. He sighs for five minutes. The cement wall scrapes his back pockets.

Not much else happens as the hours work their way through military time. Jack helps a skinny kid lift his suitcase up the steps. Jack holds the door for a group of highschoolers and give a couple pounds to a girl that wants to call her girlfriend in Oxford. Jack pets a stray Labrador with scars around its eyes. Jack smokes and coughs and picks at scabs and looks at his half-finished tattoo sleeves. The entire moon cycle runs up and down his arm. The other arm is full of Peter Pan silhouettes, quotes and moonflowers. His little sister's face is nestled amidst the buds. When he smiles, the artist falls.

"Oh shit!"

Jack flinches, watches his glasses slip and his knees buckle. He tried to tell him about those shoelaces. They're tangled around his foot. Smirking, Jack moves in.

Jack be nimble. Jack be quick. Jack, don't be a little shit. He catches the artist with both unfinished sleeves. Freckled nose crashes into a faded Nirvana shirt. Black glasses slide up over brown curls that feel like blankets from the dryer.

Now Jack's thinking like a hopeless romantic. He grins and tries not to fall off the steps.

Smile wider than ever, he moves closer to the artist until their foreheads touch. "Hey, there. Your shoes untied."

One clumsy move, just one.

Hiccup can feel his face burning. "I-I'm fine. If you could just let go of me, I'd really appreciate it."

Cigarette guy stares at him in silence.

"Uh, let go."

Nothing.

"Let. Go."

He starts whistling and holds Hiccup tighter.

"Let—"

"Are you just gonna keep saying that?"

"Yes, I am…wait," Hiccup raises his eyebrows, "are you mocking me?"

The guy shrugs. "I don't know what you're talking about. You keep saying 'let go' and I'm obviously busy." He pinches his nose and starts talking in a nasal voice. "Yeah, I'm so busy and don't have time for you. Leave me alone as I do important things like draw winky faces in my coloring book."

"I don't talk like that and it's not a coloring book."

"Actually, you do talk like that."

"Well you talk like this." Hiccup puts on the most ridiculous smile and waggles his eyebrows. "Hey there, person I don't know. I have no sense of social awareness so I'm just gonna stand here and repeat myself like a broken record until you notice my desperate, pasty ass. Hey, there. Hey, there. Hey there hey there hey there!"

"Is my ass really pasty?"

Damnit, now Hiccup's blush is even brighter. "I-I would imagine so. Yes."

A few seconds of silence, then he laughs and Hiccup smells extra minty toothpaste. "You're pretty funny. Are you a stand-up comedian?"

Hiccup rolls his eyes. "Thanks, I'll be here all night. Now can you please let go of me? I'm perfectly capable of standing on my own."

"Sure, sure."

The guy lets go and Hiccup stumbles back. Regaining his balance, looking at the puncture wound in his palm from that damn pencil. He gives it a few licks. "Okay, well, thanks for saving me. But maybe next time you could say 'hey, man, your shoe's untied' instead of 'hey, there' over and over again."

Wow, that smirk is sexy. Cigarette guy nods, never letting it leave his face. "I'll work on that."

"You should."

"I will."

There's that silence again. Hiccup bites his lip and pokes his palm. The American smirks and puts his hands in his back pockets.

"So, uh, did you notice me standing like five feet away from you all morning? I know you must have been pretty absorbed in your art, but I was there. Just chillin. Sighing, coughing, leaning against the no smoking sign."

Hiccup gives another eye-roll. "Yes, I saw you standing there. Nodding at me and wiggling your eyebrows. And I get it, you were smoking and the signs say no smoking. I get the irony."

Strands of white hair slip out of his beanie. Stick to the sweat on his face. There are scars around his eyes. "Glad you get the irony. But I wasn't staring at you 'cause I was trying to make a point. I was staring at you 'cause you're hot."

Hiccup blinks a few times. The dozens of freckles on his face burn like hotplates. Can he just melt into the concrete, please? "Huh? You think I'm hot?"

"Just letting you know. It's ok if you don't swing that way."

"No, no, no." Hiccup shakes his head so hard his freckles blur. "I totally swing that way. My batting average for that way is like .400. I'm a little surprised, that's all. I-I don't even know you…"

He pulls his beanie down. Tiny smile. Tiny scars that make Hiccup think of white crayon scratches. He's a lot shorter than Hiccup, but he full of color. Ice blue, faded jean, red blood. Even though his ass is pasty, he leans out of his blank canvas and grabs Hiccup by the collar.

"I can respect that. But come on, it's London. Do you really need to know me?"

"Uhhh… yes? I kind of need to know the guy that's about to kiss me."

The American sighs. "Damnit, man. You killed the sexual tension. And I'm not trying to kiss you."

"You're awfully close."

"Want me to get closer?"

Hiccup bursts out laughing. Nudging the American away, he adjusts his glasses and picks up his sketchbook. "You Americans really are smooth. Super smooth, like silk."

"Now you're making fun of me." His laughter is low and grating. "But you're right, I am American. My accent must have given it away."

"No, it wasn't your accent that gave it away."

He cocks his head, beanie slipping down his ear. "What gave me away?"

Hiccup says nothing. Grinning and stumbling away because his shoe's still untied. Tuck the pencil behind his ear, shove his earbuds in. The Walker starts playing, how fitting.

And he leaves the American standing at the bottom of the steps. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes travelling up to the sky.

One cloud floats by.

Jack hates himself and loves himself and wonders why the hot ones always walk away.

Twenty-nine degrees.

The kind that rolls off manholes and gets up in between your thighs. Wearing a burnout pattern on ripped grey tights, you rub the sweat off your forehead and walk through the puddles of rainwater. Warm and gross and full of sunlight.

You're the kind of person Hiccup sketches as he sits on the curb outside the currency exchange. And then you're gone in sixty seconds, off to hell knows where. Because hiding from heaven seems kinda impossible. It's way up there and all the angels have binoculars. Hell burns right beneath Hiccup's ass, beneath layers of concrete and dirt and dinosaurs. He taps his combat boots to the beat of Bleachers, I Wanna Get Better.

He definitely wants to get better at art. The sketchbook is full of graphite stained pages and smudges of ink. Damn left-hander. Always ruining his drawing before he's even done. He rolls his eyes and goes back to work. King's Cross is lit up from behind, all orange and black shadows that chase each other across the street. Hiccup sits and sketches, thankful for the lull in traffic. Don't want his toes to get hacked off by a fender. That would be a messy affair, something he's just not interested in right now. Of course, he wants to keep his toes. Toes are stuck to feet which are stuck to legs which carry him around this city. But he cares more about his fingers. What's an artist without fingers? He'd be like Jaime Lannister and then he'd throw himself into a pit of despair and cry when he knocks a cup of wine over.

Yeah, he loves his fingers more than his toes. After all, one set of toes is already gone. What happened? People ask. He just rolls his eyes. Accidents happen, shit happens, blah, blah, blah. The whole story is rather boring, actually. So he responds with "Something" and goes back to whatever he was doing.

And right now, he is drawing. Tongue caught between his teeth like sweat between your thighs. Twenty-nine is literal hell for him. Norway is cooler, a lot cooler. Like seventeen degrees in July.

London is having a freak heat spell. Twenty-nine degrees writes headlines in the daily paper like, "Britain Bakes Beneath Record Heat". Twenty-nine degrees speaks in a monotone voice on the tube, "Carrying a water bottle is recommended". Twenty-nine degrees dresses Hiccup in rolled up capri pants and a tank top with a dinosaur printed on it.

But twenty-nine degrees can do a few nice things. Turn his cheeks red, make his skin shine and his muscles defined. Make his chest heave as he squints and puts on his glasses. He looks so hot. So damn hot. And the guy sitting on the curb across the street is pretty hot, too. Smoking a cigarette, occasionally coughing into his elbow. Hiccup sees him. He definitely notices the "hey, there" guy that caught him with both arms. But he pretends not to see him. He looks at the station instead. King's Cross is looking so much hotter.

Twenty-nine degrees.

No, more like eighty-five because who the hell uses Celsius? Oh that's right, basically everyone but the United States. The United States uses Fahrenheit the way it uses guns. Violently and without apology.

Jack is used to heat. Road trips bring him to the dry heaviness of Texas, the humid mugginess of Florida. He's had his lungs filled up with water droplets he can't see. Humidity eighty percent. High of a hundred. So this whole "heat spell" thing? Just grow a pair already. He ripped out the headline about Britain baking and shoved it in his pocket. And then he sat on the curb opposite the currency exchange and lit a cigarette. Smoke curls around his head. Goes in long, slow circles that float up into the sky. The sexy artist is still going at it. Pencil in hand, he draws, looks at the train station, and draws again. Jack could watch him for hours. Black glasses slip down his nose. Freckles cover his face and dot his neck that seems to go on forever. Damn. Jack would devour that neck if he could. Not in the creepy, Edward Cullen way. Just a spattering of kisses and hickeys. Jack would mark him up if he could. Jack would do a lot of things if he could.

A brief list of things Jack would do if he could,

Never work another day in his life. But money does buy happiness.

Border hop. But some countries think that's suspicious.

Drink his weight in vodka. But he's a lightweight.

Do the bespectacled artist in the middle of the road. The beautiful artist with the tan skin and the hundreds of freckles. Ease the capris off and toss them at an oncoming semi. Marvel at whatever adorable underwear that kid is wearing. Kiss the constellations of freckles. Moan and groan into the wide shoulders, into the shaggy brown hair that probably feels like a kitten's fur. Beg for it, cry for it. Do whatever the hell else the artist wants because he's a thirsty little shit. He really is.

But Jack doesn't know how to initiate such an encounter in the middle of London. He picks up men at gay bars in New Orleans, at hole-in-the-wall pubs in Scotland, at New York clubs, at Chicago art museums full of Rene Magritte art that blows your mind and makes you hot inside. But he doesn't make a habit of having sex in public. Not yet, anyways. And he can't just waltz up to this guy. He'll think Jack is following him, which is untrue and unattractive and every "un" word out there. No creepiness happening here. Jack took a walk to the station because it's fun to watch people. Business people with bright red ties slipping into trains. Travelling people smiling in front of Platform Nine and Three Quarters, scarves draped around their necks. Jack will stand in the partial sunlight that streams in from the glass ceiling. He'll stand and watch and smoke in front of the no smoking sign. Then he'll leave and find things tucked into the streets. Like this artist. Hopefully he can stay hidden in the shadows.

Jack adjusts his cock. He can already feel it straining. Thank God for women's joggers. Those pants are soft and roomy and provide plenty of space to hide a boner. He bought a pair at H&M the other day. Black with extra big pockets. He shoves his hands in there. Maybe the want will pass.

Sexy artist stretches in the sepia sunlight. His hip bones could cut glass.

Groaning, Jack leans back on the sidewalk. Being turned on by everyone really sucks sometimes. Very inconvenient. Sunken eyes look up at the sky. London is very cardboardy to him. Like a pop-up book with cars that move when you pull the tab and birds made out of newspaper. Stupid ass newspaper that complains about the heat. The sun has completely slipped behind King's Cross. Clouds roll over and Jack thinks of dogs desperate for a belly rub.

Hell, a belly rub sounds so good right now. Surgeon's knots and fisherman's knots unravel in his stomach. Talk about heat. Eight-five degrees is nothing compared to the scorcher inside.

But there is nothing he can do. At least, not right now.

When he finally sits up and crushes the cigarette beneath his foot, the artist is gone. Nothing but a layer of darkness, a few square puddles of light. Jack can't see the stars. So he walks back to the hostel, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Two scars along his spine.

Hiccup looks at them in the tiny bathroom mirror. It's stuck so high up on the wall, your reflection looks far away. It's just him in here. A half-naked Norwegian kid standing amongst the green stalls and pools of shower water. Hostels seem to work like that. Sometimes, there's a line out your ass just to brush your teeth. Other times, it's dead silent. All those kids taking a gap year are out till four in the morning. Hiccup wants a good night sleep. Hunting for architecture is hard work.

Neck cracking, he looks at the scars again. They're small, and white. The kind you wouldn't even notice. But he feels them beneath his fingertips. Rigid like dried oil paint. Hands continue down, touch the dragon tattoo he got last year. His friend Astrid calls it a "tramp stamp". As if that were such an insult. Labels can go get hit by a bus. He rolls his eyes and admires the curve of the dragon's wing. Dipping down into his waistline.

There's definitely no one here, right? He glances at the stalls, looking for feet. Unless someone is hiding on the ceiling, he's alone. Good. The capris are hard to wriggle out of. Too tight to begin with, the sweat doesn't help. He drapes them over a stall door, along with his boxers, and walks around for a few seconds. Goosebumps on his naked ass, redness on his cheeks. Wow, look at Hiccup being all daring and brazen. It feels kind of rebellious, walking around naked. Not that there's a sign that says "no nudity", but still, it feels good. And he thinks of people and things that have pissed him off since he left Norway. Because this trip has not been all peaches and cream.

Hiccup's list of annoyances,

The guy he sat next to on the plane. Hiccup had a great window seat. Awkward knees all scrunched up, face pressed against the glass. He's happy being awkward. And then this guy waltzes up and demands that he move seats because "I just need to sit by the window, I need to!" And then Hiccup says something sarcastic and the guy argues back and Hiccup ends up rolling his eyes and moving.

"All right, sir, there's no need to have a tantrum. By all means, take the window seat. And when you have to take a piss, maybe I just won't be able to move for you. Because I have to stay seated throughout the flight, I have to."

Other annoyances include his leg going off in the metal detector.

Getting a pat down by a handsy woman that kept touching his ass.

Tripping down the escalator.

The couple having sex in the bunk above him.

The dude next to his bunk that snores like a lawnmower.

And the douchebag Frenchman that sleeps on the other side of his bunk. The asshole that calls him a faggot and hides his clothes some nights. Seriously, how old are these people?

This hostel is full of teenagers. High schoolers on trips, college kids studying abroad, runaways and wanderers. Hiccup is of the second variety. An art student from Oslo. London is full of cathedrals with vaulted ceilings and train stations with exposed brick. He could sit and draw for hours.

But now is not the time to sit in front of some fancy church and draw the spires. London is not a collection of landmarks like buildings in a snow globe. London is just like everywhere else, somebody's hometown, somebody's dream, somebody's nightmare. For Hiccup, London is a dingy bathroom full of international footprints and God knows what. He dances slowly around the empty stalls. Flipping his hair and grinding his ass against the wall. Oh wait, that's disgusting. The Planet of the Apes pandemic that wipes out the whole world is probably crawling all over that wall. That's okay, though. The five second rule can apply to asses. He jumps away and thrusts towards the door. It's a fuck you kind of dance. Fuck the guy on the airline, fuck the handsy lady and fuck the French dude. Fuck himself for being so passive. He could set fire to the bunk beds right now. Power comes when you're alone.

His eyes are shut. Fuck seeing. Fuck that American dude from before. Huh… that was random. But that idiotic smirk is branded in his brain. And those eyes rimmed in scars, oh shit, they're beautiful. Hiccup likes messing with him. He likes messing with arrogant shitheads. This arrogant shithead just happens to be gorgeous. He'll haunt Hiccup's dreams for a while. And Hiccup will keep teasing him with silence and repulsion. Because let's be honest, Hiccup doesn't need to know who he's dealing with. Ambiguity has never bothered him before. He's slept with strangers he met at bus stops. He's made love in old barns in the middle of nowhere. No doubt about it, he'll do the American in no time.

Black earbuds are waterproof. He stuffs them into his ears and listens to Echosmith. Leaves his prosthetic just outside the stall, as if anyone would steal that. The door slams behind him.

It's like balancing on one foot, except it's not. He doesn't want to bother management with a request for a shower chair. So he'll brace himself and take deep breaths that sound like oceans in his ears. His hands are cramping. The water feels so nice running over the joints. Carpal tunnel has set in before. Let's go on a trip without a visit to the doctor, shall we? He sighs, leans against the chipped tile with his fingers clenched. Lukewarm water traces channels down his spine. Right over those little white scars. Nails scratch the paint right off the wall. Blue flakes fall into the silver drain. Fluorescent lights above, cold metal below. He breathes and listens and blinks till his vision's blurry. Damnit, he forgot soap. Whatever. He'll just rub his body all over. Ridges, mountains, valleys and crevices. He's one big map. Charted by few, filled with hidden things.

The shudder starts in his toes. Makes its way up his neck. He bobs his head and mouths the words.

Two words slip through the air.

Jack walks into the bathroom with a towel around his waist. He walks the halls half-dressed. Wood floor creaks beneath his bare feet. The windows to the right are smudged, moonlight spilling in through the blinds. And the fire escape climbs higher and higher. Up to the fifth floor where strangers smoke and listen to muffled police sirens. A couple of French girls smiled at him as he descended the stairs. A German guy was sitting on the steps and talking on the phone. Jack likes to people watch. Listen to the sounds of rain against the glass, lips smacking against a cigarette.

The bathroom is silent except for the singing. Jack hears it when he opens the door. It comes from the first stall on the left. Water strikes the floor in that heavy kind of way. As if each drop were full of lead. Bending over, he sees a foot. Just one foot. Flat and almost looking inanimate. Dotted with freckles and little white scars, kinda pale and kinda tan at the same time. Jack crouches and cocks his head.

This is a skittish creature. The ever elusive freckled foot that wanders the forests alone. Where's the other? Tucked behind some naked dude's back? Balancing on the wall? Shoved up someone's ass?

But that is such a normative question, Jack. That is such a stupid assumption, asshole.

Maybe the freckled foot travels alone because it doesn't need another one. Maybe it's not just a freckled foot, but a freckled body. And maybe that body is actually a person. And maybe Jack should stop gawking at something he never sees in the mirror. And maybe we should stop thinking in synecdoches and treat people like fucking people. Whole, hot, sexy people that drip with identity. Their own person candles burning in the back of their brains. This candle is steaming in the shower. Speckled with dust and water droplets painted red.

Red? What the hell? All Jack can think of is blood running down this poor kid's leg. Oh shit, what if he's standing in there, bleeding out, and all Jack's been doing is marveling at the adorable freckles on his toes?

Yelling, he dives under the stall door. "Holy shit, are you okay?"

"Uhh…"

A lanky guy with a rock hard ass stares down at him. Water smacks Jack's face, pasty skin caught under this siege of sexiness. Lanky's freckles might jump off his body. Brown stars, green eyes, microscopic braids that bend like blades of grass.

He's got his mouth wide open. That nasty shower water hits the back of Jack's throat. Who cares? He stays that way for a few seconds. Mouth open, nothing to say. Then his eyes widen.

"Wait…it's you. The artist that tripped over his shoelaces."

"And it's you, the annoying guy that followed me to the train station."

"Now that is a false statement."

That freckled face is redder than the Little Mermaid's bullshit hair color. "So that wasn't you creeping in the shadows?"

Jack shrugs. "King's Cross is a public place. I happened to spend the day there and so did you."

"Well, right now you're the guy that's watching me take a shower. Naked."

"Of course you're naked. Who showers fully clothed?"

He rolls his eyes. "Can you leave?"

"Tell me why you're bleeding."

"What?" His hands fumble down his back. Two lines of red fade from pink to scarlet. Water takes all the blood away. "Must have scratched myself on the faucet or something. Thanks for telling me, I—" Green eyes widen. "What the hell I am saying? Get out of here, dumbass!"

"I can't! You're standing there, hobbling around on your one foot and you're bleeding. Which is doubly surprising 'cause I couldn't even tell you were missing a foot earlier."

The groan that comes from this kid's mouth could be a dragon's growl. "Oh you're so right, creepy stranger with premature grey. I'm so helpless, how have I been surviving all these years hobbling around on my peg leg? It's not like I've been to twenty-two countries or gone to university or started an animal rescue shelter or anything."

Jack rubs the water out of his eyes. "Animal shelter, huh? That's so sweet."

"Okay, your sarcasm is officially worse than mine."

"No, I'm not mocking you! Really, I'm—"

And then the freckled, bespectacled beauty braces himself against the stall. Hands on either side. With one final grunt, he jumps up and kicks Jack right in the head, shouting, "Get out!"

There he goes. Flying into the opposite wall, anime style. The sinks here are old and chipped. Jack grabs the edge, heaves himself up. His first thoughts are along the lines of "wow" and "damn, I want to fuck him".

But all he says is, "Jack."

"That's definitely not my name."

"It's mine, dipshit. Jackson Overland, but I prefer Jack." He sits in the sink bowl, arms crossed, the ringing in his ears slowly fading. "I was born and raised in the United States, land of ignorant fatasses and Stephen Colbert's Americone Dream. If you've never had that flavor of ice cream, I will gladly spoon feed you some. Uh, let's see, I'm unemployed, practically invisible to everyone except those that want to fuck me. Nothing beats the smile on a kid's face when you save their balloon from flying away. And my main goal in life is to have fun."

The shower clicks off. Green eyes and a freckled face appear from behind the door. "What are you doing?"

"Telling you the basics."

"Alrighty then. Why?"

Jack pulls his beanie over one eye. Then over the other. Back and forth and back and forth. He feels like a pirate. A very awkward pirate. "I've bugged you at least twice today. I unintentionally creeped on you and saw you naked. Which is lovely, by the way, you have a lovely body. But yeah, basically I've been an annoying shit today and you deserve to at least know who the annoying shit is. So that's me. Jack, the annoying little shit."

Three words are enough.

Enough for Hiccup to know that this guy is either exactly what he seems or so much more. He hops out of the shower, dripping. Puddles of pale pink on the floor. The door creaks open. Full of rust and sweat and thousands of foreign handprints. What's the point in covering up? He'll leave his pants draped over the stall. It's cold out here. Goosebumps pop up and his finger shake. Thick hair is plastered to his neck, every inch of him looking like a wet cat. His cock's freezing, but it still looks good. He can feel it. So he stands in the doorframe and strikes a sexy pose. Well, he tries to.

"At least you're honest, Jack the annoying little shit. I'm Hiccup, the socially awkward amputee. Born in Oslo, Norway. Currently an art student. I like cats and my favorite book is Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Oh, and I'm terribly sarcastic."

Jack can't stop staring at Hiccup's cock. "I-I can tell. You've been playing me all day."

"Glad you finally figured out who's playing who."

"You're a sadistic bastard." His laugh is hollow, echoing all over the bathroom.

"You're sadistic, too." Hiccup rolls his eyes. Balancing on one foot is starting to hurt. "You hunt helpless Norwegian's and you probably use your ridiculous accent to pick up guys."

"Well you're right about one thing." Jack hops off the sink, careful not to slip. The bruise on his head is hot, but he couldn't care less. "I do have a ridiculous accent."

"You really do." He reaches for Jack with freckled fingers. "I think I know you well enough now."

Jack's eyes widen. "Are you… do you want me to… sorry, I'm a little confused."

"I want you to come over here, you dumb American."

"And I want you to be nice to me, you jerky Norwegian."

"Fine. Then hand me my prosthetic and the stuff inside it and get over here." Hiccup's heart is banging, his knees are shaking. Keeping up this cool façade is hard work. But this opportunity cannot get up and walk away. Years of studying in a glass room, hunched over pages with paint smudged on his face. Years of carpal tunnel and missing limbs. He's had enough. Extreme work calls for extreme play. Cock getting hard, face burning beneath the fluorescents. Jack picks up the prosthetic, places it carefully in his hands. Dry the stump with the cheap hostel towel they probably got at Pound Saver. Put on the sheath, the gel liner, and the sock. Slide right into and roll up another liner, no pin lock for him. It takes a lot less time than you would think. It's a half-assed job, but it'll do. Right now there are more pressing matters. He reaches again. A pale hand reaches back.

He pulls Jack against him. Bare chests slapping. Low-grade towel wrapped around his slim waist, Hiccup is desperate to take it off. But first he grinds on it. Slow and hard. Jack holds his breath and lets Hiccup lead him into the shower. The stall door slams behind them. It's a kind of dance, really. A Moonwalk that take them to the back wall. Each grind is deeper than the last. Like Hiccup is carving him out with a knife. Those hipbones could slice Jack to ribbons. He rolls down the American, grinding turns to thrusting and hands flat against his chest. He'll leave his fingerprints all over the tattoos. A fat, full moon that drips. Literally drips with little raindrops. Moonflowers, lightning bolts, a girl's face nestled in the petals. Hiccup kisses every line and geometric shape. He kneels in the grime, toes curling around the holes in the drain. Lower and lower, wet lips trailing spit down the soft stomach. Jack's not built or anything. But he's slim and angular and his skin's all gauzy. Hiccup slides the towel off, lets it fall to the floor. Holy shit. This cock. Everything he's ever heard about Americans is true. A growl creeps up his throat.

"Damn. You sound like a dragon."

"I guess." Hiccup smiles and licks his lips. "Rawr."

"You did not just roar at me?"

"Shh, you're throwing off my concentration."

Jack strokes Hiccup's hair, grabbing at the braid. One by one. "Am I about to witness your amazing batting average?"

"Yes, prepare to be amazed by my incredible swing, and uh, my amazing drive." Damnit, he knows almost nothing about baseball. "It'll be like a touchdown or whatever it's called."

"Home run. God, you're such a dork."

"You don't even know me, dumbass. Now stand still."

"I know your type, though. Smart, jerky, a huge ner—oh fuck!"

Hiccup's got half his cock in his mouth. Tongue tasting every inch, teasing the slit with his teeth. He moves in closer and closer. Until all of it is pressed against the back of his throat. Blink the tears away and keep going. It's always easier to move to the beat of music. His iPod is somewhere on the floor, discarded when he kicked Jack in the head. But he can't stop now. Pulling away would kill the fire. So he imagines dragons. The rhythm of It's Time is simple and tight. Like his insides. Heart made of muscle and old paintbrushes. Bones built of stick and stones. Veins tied together, a pair of shoelaces. Brain wrapped up in dreams and visions and memories of a two-story flame.

No, focus on this. On giving this pasty ass American the best blowjob ever. Hiccup whines and moves faster. Hands pump the hardened cock. Teeth graze the skin, then bite down hard enough for Jack to flinch. Canines like razors, all sharp and electrifying. Hiccup moves his jaw in ways Jack's never seen. Does things with his tongue Jack's never felt before. Hiccup grabs his balls and goes ever faster. Never pausing for breath. Just arching his whole body. Knees slide on the wet floor, toes curl and his spine bends.

Jack leans against the wall. His fingers claw the tile, head thrown back as far as possible. He never tries to stifle his moans. They echo across the bathroom.

Hiccup wants to tell him to shut up. But he tastes so good, the floor is so wet, the lights are so bright. Everything HD for half a second. He hears the bathroom door creak open. So he jumps up, turns the shower on, and mashes his mouth into Jack's. This sloppy kind of kiss that reeks of too many action movies and RPG playthroughs. He's Norwegian, after all. Land of Vikings that probably rode dragons. He's supposed to like it rough. The way Jack leaves handprints on his back. Nails imbedded in each freckle.

They kiss, move like swaying ships. All tossed up and confused on the waves. Jack's eyes shut tight, his muscles spazzing. Hiccup picks him up by the waist and pushes him into the wall. As if he could go any deeper. Tattooed legs lock across the scarred spine.

Jack manages a breath. "Y-You're stronger than you look."

"I don't even work out."

They smile into each other's lips.

Jack gives another moan. "Finish me off, man. The kissing's great, but I think I might explode."

"Fine. But there's someone in here." Hiccup feels the heat in his face. "Can you keep it down?"

"Keeping it down isn't really my thing. But…"

"But what?" That dumb smirk makes him nervous.

Jack shrugs. "I might be able to keep quiet if we do this again sometime. My room's 201."

"I didn't really come on this trip to fuck myself to death."

"We don't have to fuck. We'll just screw around, like we're doing now." He runs his hands through Hiccup's hair. "We can't have sex right now anyways, I don't keep lube in my beanie."

Okay, that was pretty funny. He laughs while rolling his eyes. "Deal. No penetration. Just foreplay."

Jack bounces in Hiccup's arms. Like some overgrown kid. "Oh, and lots of PDA."

"But public displays of affection are so… public."

"That's the point." Fingers tickle his neck. Lips kiss his jawline with every word. "Public. Private. Doesn't. Matter."

"It does mat—"

"Silence, dragon." And he grabs Hiccup's face and kisses him.

Hands go limp as Hiccup moves down to his cock. Keeping it down has never been harder. Fingernails dig into his palm.

When Jack comes, Hiccup swallows it all. Damn, damn it that was good. Both legs are made of Jell-O. That nasty green Jell-O that Jack's eaten way too many times. He sinks to the floor, breathing hard. Watches Hiccup lay on the tile and jerk himself off. He hardly makes a sound. A shiver runs up freckled skin, almost invisible. His sigh of satisfaction is the cutest thing.

No one cares about the potential foot fungus on the floor. Hiccup rolls onto his stomach, arms crossed beneath his chin. Droplets on the metal drain. Dripping into nothing, cutting paths across the blue and white. From him to Jack. Like his orgasm, it's almost invisible. An invisible thread tying them together in this moment. This brief, random, sexy, terrible moment. And maybe they do feel a little dirty. They are sitting on a bathroom floor. Maybe you shouldn't give a stranger a blowjob. Because his name might not even be Jack, and your name might not even be Hiccup.

But then the stranger smiles. Both of them holding back laughs as they listen to the wet footsteps.

"Hello? Is someone in this stall?"

Hiccup gives Jack a don't-do-it look. Too late.

"Two someone's, actually. Wanna join us?"

What the hell are you thinking? Hiccup grits his teeth, flails around like a tantrum kid.

Jack touches his leg and whispers, "It's fine. I must have scared the guy off."

"I swear to the gods, if you get us kicked out this hostel I'm gonna—"

Excitement all over his face. Dogs look the same way when you wave a bacon strip in front of their nose. "What? Screw me over? Fuck me up? Beat the shit out of me? Cause I welcome all those things."

"You're sick. Sick as cancer or whatever the worst disease is."

"Then leave." Jack retracts his hand. "I'm not gonna make you do anything."

"I… uh…" Words escape him at the worst times. He wants to speak, but someone knocks on the door. And then they're huddling together. Kids caught drawing on the walls. Because Jack pretends to be a badass and Hiccup's sarcasm can be as plastic as a Barbie doll. No one really wants attention. No one asks to be looked at. Invisible people huddle in the wet cold and stare at the shuddering door.

A shaky voice. "You said I could join you two?"

No way.

It's a simultaneous answer. "Hell, yes."

Fifteen minutes later.

It's getting late. You can't spend forever in the shower. Drunk assholes wander in at three AM and stand under the heads with their mouths open. Jack, Hiccup, and the knock on the stall door leave way before that. The knock doesn't have a name. He thanks them for the quickie and heads downstairs.

"I'm leavin' for Australia tomorrow. Thanks for the sendoff, mates."

Jack looks at the number plaques on each door. Tarnished silver. He walks and whistles Bohemian Rhapsody. Towel wrapped low around his waist. Hiccup walks backwards up the stairs, almost twisting his ankle.

"Can't stand to look away from me, huh?"

Ignoring that. "That was, uh, fun. You're a pretty cool guy, Jack."

"You, too."

A siren blares outside. The stairs are painted with light. Hiccup's freckles look like specks of dirt. Jack's tattoos are children's drawings. Then it's gone.

Hiccup adjusts his towel. "So I guess I'll see you later. Maybe we can, I don't know, have breakfast in the morning."

Jack cocks his head. "You mean like toast and stuff?"

"Yeah. Toast and stuff. Personally, I like it burnt."

"I like strawberry jam." Squinting, he stares. From scabbed knees to awkward green eyes. "You know, you kinda look like a strawberry. With all those freckles and your messy hair."

Hiccup rolls his eyes. "And you look like a Q-tip. Good night, Jack." There he goes, up the stairs. Constantly pulling his towel back up, cursing under his breath.

Jack leans against the railing. Don't laugh, don't laugh. Laughter comes anyway. "Night night, Hiccup. See you at ten?"

His voice drifts down the staircase. "No. I'm an early riser. Seven-thirty at the latest."

"God's not even awake at seven-thirty!"

"Then I guess neither you nor God will be joining me for breakfast."

Jack throws his hands up. But no one's looking, idiot. "Fine! I'll see you at seven-thirty."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Silence. Except for the distant sirens and the whispers in the dark. All in different languages. Jack stands alone in the stairwell. His towel drop but he doesn't bother to pick it up.

Fifteen packages of strawberry jam.

Eight of them empty, licked clean. Stacked up on the plastic table screaming with light. Light from the fluorescents, from hundred-watt bulbs and watch faces that blink when the hour turns. Jack sits opposite Hiccup, sticking his tongue into the packages one at a time.

"You want some toast with that jam?"

Scattered laughter. "I'm good. Want some jam with that toast?"

"I like it dry." He takes a bite. So freakin' crunchy. Black flakes fall all around him. "Want some orange juice?"

"Are we just gonna ask each other questions?"

Eye-roll. "This is how people get to know each other. They ask questions, answer questions, blah, blah, blah. But fine, we can just talk if you want."

"No." Jack shakes his head. "I don't wanna talk, I wanna do."

Another eye-roll. "I thought we agreed we're not having sex."

"I don't want to do you, dumbass. I want to do stuff, do anything but talk. Words only mean so much."

"So let's do something, then." Another bite. Holy shit, this toast is so crunchy. It's so hard to look away from all the black pieces settling like sawdust. "Let's… uh… let's go sightseeing."

"Sightseeing's for tourists."

"We are tourists. There's no hiding it. The second I open my mouth, people will know I'm Norwegian. And you look more American than a bald eagle in an Obama costume. So drop the shitty, hipster attitude, and go see some damn attractions."

Now Jack's preoccupied with himself. Pulling at his beanie and Pink Floyd tank top. "I don't get it. How do I look America?"

"Let's go."

"Don't ignore me, freckle face. How do I look American?"

Grinning like an idiot, he tosses his empty paper plate in the garbage and stands up. He throws Jack's jam packages away, too. "Let's go."

They leave the cafeteria, the breakfast buffet, whatever you call it. It's small and screaming like the table. Stainless steel coffee makers and toasters line one wall. All mismatched heights, similar to the people that use them. Two rooms stuck together. One with a few seats and a pool table. At night, people play and drink and smoke electronic cigarettes. They can hear the raindrops from the basement. London storms are strong and cold. Another room is full of matching picnic tables. Teenagers push them together to fit all their friends. Wow. Must be cool to have all those friends. Hiccup left everyone in Norway. And Jack's invisible, remember?

He leaves a single package of grape jam behind. Must have grabbed that by accident. Strawberry is the best.

The stairs are slick, easy to trip on. The creaking never stops. Clink78 is an old place. A prison turned youth hostel. Close to King's Cross Station, across the street from a convenience store and a pizza place owned by a guy that sweeps his sidewalk every night. Roads are black and unusually empty. But then the cars will go streaking by at random times. Gotta be careful crossing the white lines.

Up one street, you'll find a French bakery with the freshest lemon cakes. So fresh you could probably use them to mummify a body. And then there's the station and the currency exchange that's no bigger than a handicap bathroom stall.

Clink78 is nestled in the dark, the squares and slats of hazy light, the laughing people, the people that stare, the people that walk with hands shoved in pockets. Clink78 is streetlights and kids smoking on ash covered steps. Basically, it's as hipster as you can get.

And Jack fits right in.

His beanie is pulled down over his ears.

Hiccup's talking with his hands. "You look like you're about to rob a bank."

"I'm a wild American, of course I'm about to rob a bank. Now come on, bitch."

They practically run through the foyer. This long room with wooden countertops and yellow tile. Above, stained glass makes a mini Sistine Chapel. Green, yellow, and red. Hiccup sees a blooming flower. Jack sees a setting sun. Rolling suitcases are parked along the edge. Tattered, beaten on the bottom. Poor things, they go through hell. There's a group of college students sitting on vinyl couches, waiting for the poor things that slept in this morning. Those lazy asses are about to go through hell.

Hiccup's legs are long. So Jack holds onto his belt loop. Don't wanna fall behind. Someone is speaking Italian. Someone is speaking English. It all sounds like gibberish to Jack. He's focused on two things. The light streaming through the door, a hazy rectangle sketched on the ground. Hiccup's belt loop, rough and faded and always teasing. If he pulls hard enough, he can see Superman boxers.

"I know what you're doing." Hiccup says it without turning around.

"Sorry, sorry."

"It's fine. I don't care if you look." He slips through the hazy rectangle. Red shadows slide across his skin.

Jack pulls harder and harder.

Outside, cigarettes sit between smiles. They're dropped and crushed beneath heavy soles. They're lit by hands without prints and hands with scars and hands ringed in gold. Watches, bracelets, rubber bands, loops of paper and beaded strings. Jack looks at all those fingers. He's thinking in synecdoches again. Idiot. But it's just so hard to piece people together. Black thread holds them together. All these body parts and thoughts that no one ever sees.

Jack is made of fallen snow and moonless nights. How poetic, how pretentious and shitty. As if he's better than anyone else.

If you asked Hiccup what he was made of, he'd roll his eyes. And then he'd say, "Screw all that 'you're made of stardust' shit. People are made of people. I'm Hiccup, just Hiccup. I'm made of me. Isn't that enough?"

It's enough for Jack.

They walk through the streets, air warmer than blood. Rows of houses, pinched and painted grey, run beside them. Voices drift through cracked-open windows. TV voices. Young voices. Angry voices. Hiccup's in the lead, mentally noting all the angles and lines in the buildings.

Jack notices. "You wanna be an architect? You keep staring at everything so seriously."

"No, not really. I like mapping things out. If I enough time, I'd sketch all of London. Every alleyway, every person."

"You should sketch me sometimes." He says it as a joke, but not really.

"Sure."

"Seriously?"

Hiccup turns around, walks backwards. The clouds break and light shatters on his face. "Yeah. I've got some watercolor pencils I need to try out. Your eyes are perfect for that."

Really? Jack wonders how they're perfect.

Hiccup never tells him.

Four body parts.

Two legs, two arms. The statue in the middle of Piccadilly Circus stands with wings swept back. Atop the angular steps, above crowds of people that never seem to leave. Around the corner, there's a place that sells ice cream. Hiccup paid for both of them.

"I thought Americans were rich."

He blushes and pulls the beanie down. "Not this American."

"Whatever. Here's your cone. Don't drop it, butterfingers."

Squeezed in like houses, they sit on the steps. Pistachio ice cream drips down a tattooed wrist. Right over the moonflowers. Drops on his chin, around his lips. All Hiccup can do is stare. Literally sit there with his knees bunched up and his eyes fixed. Rivers of chocolate run over his hands. Knobby knuckles and blue veins. The drops on Jack's face turn to streaks of green.

So tempting.

So damn tempting.

Little Hiccup was held back by invisible hands. Sometimes, they were his father's. Big, strong hands that never listened and threw him to the floor. Sometimes, they were society's, as immature as that sounds. Those hands were clawing and painful. Lined with pointed fingernails. And sometimes, they were his own hands.

He cut those hands off long ago. An accident cut his foot off about five years ago. No time for whining about stupid shit. No time for holding back.

He leans forward. Closer, closer. Jack keeps smearing ice cream all over his face. It trickles down that smooth neck. Come on, man, you're begging for it. Screaming with your mouth full of creamy stuff.

"The hell are you doing?"

Hiccup stops midway. "Uh, I'm checking your neck for ticks."

"How nice of you." Leans forward, squinting in the heat. Piccadilly burns with static electricity. "Oh look, I think you've got one on your neck. Yep, most definitely a tick. Hold still."

His lips are wet and sticky. They go to work on freckles and tendons that strain when he tilts his head.

Hiccup squirms. "Not in public, dumbass."

"You embarrassed? Huh? You embarrassed, Hicky?" Jack laughs into the tendons. "Oh my God, that's a perfect nickname for you."

"No, its' really not."

He backs away. Blinks a few times. Ears are red beneath the beanie. "Want me to stop?"

Let's think about this for a second. Hiccup wants to say 'hell, no' but all he says is, "No. As long as you don't lick me or anything."

"Understood. I'm gonna give you a hickey, Hicky."

Four minutes of what Steve Rogers would call 'necking'.

Hiccup looks at the scenery. Black stairs in the middle of Piccadilly. The giant digital screen flashes pictures of McDonald's and Coke and Foster's. A group of theater students rushing to go see The 39 Steps. Little kids in trench coats go running by. One time, in LHR, Jack met an English family that was flying to Dubai. The daughter was blonde and full of money. You could it in her eyes. All those fancy trips and fancy food. She asked Jack if he was American because she loved American accents and please, please, please could he say something in his lovely accent? And then her mother laughed and apologized, and said "Come on, sweetie. Our plane leaves soon". Yes, their plane to Dubai. The girl was eight and she had been to Dubai eight times. How lovely. How incomprehensible.

Now Jack is sucking a beautiful, bronze neck. And Hiccup is still looking around. His ice cream falls off the cone. Damnit.

"Here. Have some of mine." Jack grabs a scoop of pistachio and sticks it on Hiccup's cone.

"Thanks. Looks so appetizing."

He laughs and lays his head on Hiccup's shoulder. "Sarcastic little shit."

More looking. More necking. More people watching that descends into a half-hour nap on the black steps. Shit, what a waste of thirty minutes.

No one bothers them as they sleep. What trustworthy people.

They wake up when Big Ben chimes. A little early for lunch, but Jack's stomach is growling and he's whimpering like a puppy. With big watery eyes and a panting tongue. There's a pub around every corner. Small, smoky rooms that make his eyes water even more. He's got an obsession with "water" foods. You know, foods that have the word "water" in them. Watermelon, water chestnuts, shit like that. But when Hiccup asks him if he ever goes swimming in the Pacific Ocean, his eyes go wide.

"No. No, I hate swimming. Almost drowning tends to do that to you."

"That's terrible." It's an honest response, really. "What happened?"

Five seconds of nothing. Just glasses clinking in the dark. He smiles. "Questions are overrated. Let's go on The Eye, Hicky."

Four seconds in and they're already making out.

Make out sessions go one of two ways. Slow and careful like one of them might break. Fast and clothes ripping and hot and gasping and masturbating while they're kissing and coming at the same time as the Ferris wheel peaks.

This is the first kind. Still strangers, still wondering why the hell they're doing this. Shower blowjobs have this way of stripping away all awkwardness then putting it back together again in the most awkward way. It wasn't uncomfortable deep throating Jack in the steaming hall. But it is uncomfortable kissing slowly in a glass box.

There are fifteen people in the glass box. All muttering and taking pictures and glancing uncomfortably at Hiccup and Jack.

Let's be honest, this whole situation is uncomfortable. And every other "un" word out there. Underrated by Hiccup's burning face. Underscored by Jack's knee slipped between his knees. Touching cool glass that flies over the Thames. Unappreciated by the eyes that squint and stare.

Why are they doing this?

Hiccup wants to push Jack away and ask him that. He got the answer a few hours ago, though.

"Because I like making people nervous." When Jack said this, he was looking over the bridge. Down at the people huddled together in the ferry. "I'm an asshole, okay? And I'm horny, like all the time. I can't not touch something I like. And I like you, okay?"

No complaints there.

Hiccup does his best not to freak out. He's taking a break, leaning against the glass while Jack leans into him. Locked up in a hug, he's not going anywhere. Thank the gods Jack is in front him. The boner in his pants is getting bigger. Jack's is growing, too. Shit, shit, shit. Hiccup takes a deep breath and looks outside. The carousel is spinning below.

"You alright, man?"

"Yeah, just feeling a little awkward with this whole thing." Hiccup does his best to whisper.

"I told you, think of it like a game." Jack hugs him tighter. "How many places can we make out in?"

"That sounds like a stupid tumblr meme."

He squints. "You're a stupid tumblr meme."

"You're a moron."

And then they go back to quiet kissing. Until some lady screams at them to stop. To which Jack asks, "What grosses you out? The PDA itself or the fact that we're two guys?" She gives the wrong answer, he flips his lid, and soon everyone is yelling and Hiccup is rolling his eyes and trying to keep the peace. What a fun ride.

They sprint out of the glass box when the ride ends. Hand in hand, running past the street performers and the ice cream truck. No wait, they'll go back to the ice cream truck. They end up eating popsicles while riding plastic horses on the carousel.

Jack can't stop thinking in metaphors. Hiccup's popsicle looks so good. So obvious, so bulging. They sit on a bench and watch the performers pretend to be statues. Pieces of a newspaper roll across the ground. Jack stops them with his foot and uses them to cover his boner.

Hiccup looks over. "You've got the obituaries on your crotch."

"Yeah. So?"

Nothing. Nothing but subtle glances and unnecessary amounts of sexual tension. Once again, more "un" words.

Without a word, Hiccup lays his head on Jack's lap. Eyes closed, they both take a nap.

Subtract fifty-two scenes. Fifty-two separate frames that you rip off the film and stare at for hours. Because sometimes life feels like moments. They spend a week together, then another. Making out in alleys and next to a newsstand in China Town. They run down cobblestone roads, trying to get to the British Museum before it closed.

Jack is ecstatic. "This place is the best 'cause it's free. Like, you get to see that kickass stone for free. How cool is that?"

"You mean the Rosetta Stone?"

"Yeah, yeah. That thing."

They stand under the great glass ceiling. All the light perforated by darkness. Diamond shadows on the floor.

Jack presses Hiccup against the guardians of Babylon and kisses him softly. Like snow on his lips.

They eat lemon cake at the French bakery around the corner. The one owned by the French family that hands out free pastries and smiles at everyone.

They go to Piccadilly at night, sit on the black steps and watch the screen light up. Soaking in the fluorescent colors. Some days, a soccer player performs in the Circus. He rolls a ball across his arms and neck, does backflips and front flips. Jack throws five pounds into his hat.

They go to Herod's and walk into fancy stores, just for the hell of it. Jack's such a hipster.

He says, "Look at all this boring mainstream shit. And it's so expensive."

"Here." Hiccup throws a scarf over his shoulders. "Don't you feel fancy?"

"Oh yes." Jack puts on his best English accent. "I'd like a spot of tea and some scones. Pip, pip. Cheerio."

"'Cause that's totally how they talk."

"Mimicking accents is hard, dumbass." The scarf hangs low across his chest. "Try an American accent, why don't ya?"

"No…"

"Big Norwegian chicken."

"Fine." Hiccup rolls his eyes. He tries to imitate Jack's generic voice, the typical American accent that he sees in movies. "Hey there. I'm American and I like hot dogs and baseball."

Jack bursts out laughing. "That was the worst thing I've ever heard!"

"I tried, okay? I'd love to hear you try and speak my language with my accent and sound perfect."

Blue eyes look even brighter in the light. "Dude, I'm like a parrot. I can mimic anyone."

"No. You're an idiot."

And Jack kisses him on the lips. Right there in the middle of the store.

They wander around the city some evenings. Jack walks on the curb and forces Hiccup to walk on the street, just so he can feel tall.

Sometimes, Hiccup randomly stops in the middle of the sidewalk to sketch a building or a person. Big Ben. Downing Street. A girl and her boyfriend kissing against a bus stop. Little children in expensive clothes. Tourists and locals and models and maybe even a celebrity.

Jack runs into him, cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Nerd."

He gets an eye roll and ridiculously drawn caricature in Hiccup's sketchbook.

A list of things in that ink stained, beat up sketchbook:

Jack's stupid face.

Lampposts glowing at midnight.

Cars of all sizes and those old British taxies.

Buildings, bridges, telephone wires and signs.

Stray dogs, stray cats.

Food, beer glasses and vodka bottles.

Ticket stubs, tall trees, garbage cans, and cigarettes.

So many random doodles that Hiccup scoffs at and calls "pieces of shit". But Jack hovers over them and stares at the lines and smudges. He thinks they're beautiful.

They stay in some nights. Watch the cold rain hit the awnings and the tops of people's cars. Jack goes down to the kitchen and brings back a couple tea cups.

Hiccup's in the single stall bathroom, smoking pot that Jack gave him. Apparently, he knows his way around the underground. He knows the right people and gets the right stuff. Hiccup won't ask questions. But he is curious about the teacups.

"What're you doing with those? They're empty."

"I know." Jack shuts the door and sits on the closed toilet seat. "We're gonna play a game."

Hiccup sits on the back of the toilet. Knees bunched up to his chest. "Uh, okay."

"What you have to do is see how long you can balance a teacup on your head."

"That's dumb."

"No. It's fun. Come on."

Cheap china cup sits in his hair. He moves, watches it with rolled up eyes. "One, two, three, four, five—shit!"

It crashes to the floor.

Hiccup laughs and takes the second teacup. "I can do better than that. Watch. One, two, three, four, five…"

Thirty seconds later, it's still on his head.

Jack growls and knocks the damn thing off. "I get it, I get it. You're good at everything."

"Oh yeah, definitely."

And then they laugh. Laughter turns to kissing, kissing turns to jerking each other off for no reason. That's pretty much how their newfound relationship goes. Talking one second, moaning the next. And Jack's moans are so loud, his orgasms are so violent. He claws and bites and his toes and fingers curl. Hiccup kisses with aggression, grunting and biting his lip. Orgasms are silent, head tilted back and tears pricking at his eyes. He blushes like crazy. There's sexual frustration in the bunkbeds some nights 'cause you can't get all physical in front of people, right?

Wrong.

Jack wants everyone to see. In the middle of the night, he likes to lick Hiccup's scars and grind against the dragon tramp stamp. Hiccup whines like a cat when he's hard, when Jack sucks his fingers like lollipops.

So this is his revenge. He grabs hair, grabs cock, and milks it till Jack's voice cracks.

They do everything but sex. Every creative idea, every position, every touch and look and taste. They're exhausted when the sun comes up.

Two week pass and their hands are still intertwined. Jack buys Hiccup random shit with money he seems to pull out of thin air. No questions, no questions. Just take those joints and those gifts and take that shitty American by the hand.

Two days before Hiccup has to leave, they wake up early and go to Camden Market.

Two snapshots.

One, two fools buying cute shit at Camden Market. This place is a trap. Over-priced tourist spots are packed with vendors. A winding maze of black sheets, white fences, and silver hangers. Every other vendor sells the same thing. Hiccup tears Jack away from a beanie that costs twenty-five pounds.

"But the seller told me it was vintage!"

"Keep walking, Jack."

The street is long and straight. Filled with so many people. There's a diner on one corner, the theme is the American 1940's. Waitresses wear little naval outfits and the men are all dressed like soda jerks. Hiccup and Jack pop in there for a quick bite. One girl is definitely Jack's type. The others, not so much.

He kicks Hiccup under the table. "Dude, see that chick? Damn she's fine."

"Yeah, she's pretty." His freckles suddenly itch. "But I wouldn't do her. My ass is big, freckled, and gay."

"Well, mine is flat, pasty, and pan."

Hiccup takes a sip of Coke. "Maybe if you ask her, she'll join us in the shower like that Australian guy."

That smile is killer. "Sarcastic little shit. I would never ask her that. You wouldn't have any fun with a vagina."

Another sip. "Not unless that vagina had a strap-on."

They laugh for the next five minutes.

All the good shit is located further down the road. Past all those tourist traps. Camden Market has handmade rings, soap, art, anything you can imagine.

Jack tries on a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses covered in rhinestones. Posing like an amateur model, he walks towards Hiccup, all sexy-like.

"Wow. You should be on the catwalk."

"Shut up, Hicky. This is a turn on, you know it is."

Eye roll. "Oh yeah. I'm so horny right now." A painting catches his eye. "Now that actually makes me horny."

It's a small canvas with waves of color on it. And splatters of paint that look like drops of blood. Lines scratched across the surface with what could have been anything. Nails, teeth, razorblades. Hiccup's aware of all the change in his pocket.

Jack stops his walk. "You want that thing?"

"Uh, kind of." Hiccup adjusts his glasses. "It definitely draws my attention."

"All right, then. You're getting it."

"No, no, no. You're not buying it for me, dumbass."

Too late. Jack runs over to the vendor with his credit card out. Damn, he uses that little piece of plastic for everything. Hiccup wonders if he's in denial.

"Hey, man, do you take credit?"

Now the painting swings low in a plastic bag. They lean against a brick wall and play absentmindedly with each other's hand. Fingers interlocked and rubbing the brick, the skin, the new ring on Jack's finger. It's made out of a 1960's bottle cap. Those gaudy tortoiseshell sunglasses are on his face. Holy shit does he look stupid. A skinny, stupid hipster.

Hiccup wants to laugh but then remembers that they're listening to Doses and Mimosas on his iPod. That's pretty hipster. So they're leaning and listening and becoming the most obscure things in London. Standing in this tiny ass walkaway that sits just above the river. To their left, food vendors. The sick, sweet smell of funnel cakes and fried stuff. And international cuisine, too. Cuisine that Hiccup doesn't recognize. He eyes a giant piece of pork. It's stabbed through with a toothpick and dangling from this guy's hand.

"Samples! Samples!"

Jack tilts his head forward so the sunglasses slide down his nose. "You want that pork thing?"

Hiccup gives a hollow laugh. "Can you stop acting like you're my sugar daddy or something? All this shit about buying me things and the way you ask 'you want that, Hicky'? I have money, just so you know."

Jack pulls his beanie down. "I've got money, too. I just…"

"I know you do." And then he kisses Jack on the cheek and grabs that free sample and they eat it together until their lips touch.

Hiccup says, "Tastes like I'm kissing a pig."

"Yeah, you're right. Let's continue this later?"

"Let's continue this later."

So they don't make out at Camden Market.

But they do make out somewhere else. Another snapshot, two guys watching The Tempest at The Globe. Aw yes, the historic theater that isn't really the theater you thought it was. The original Globe burned down because it was made of hay and wood.

Jack reads this in a pamphlet and shouts, "What a bunch of asshats! No wonder it burned down!"

Then he goes off about hos originals don't exist anymore. The original Ford's Theater is gone, too. Nothing is authentic these days, blah, blah, blah.

Hiccup nudges him in the shoulder. "Jack, your hipster is showing."

Floor tickets are cheap, like five pounds. They can stand beneath the stage and feel the rain and spit and whatever else is flung down. They get there early. Thirty minutes before the show. A street magician gathers s crowd. Dead leaves and cigarette butts rolling in the street. On grey stones, people huddle, watch this stranger trick people out of their money. It's simple. He hides a marble beneath a dome shaped lid, then he shuffles the lids around and you have to guess where the marble is. You can bet whatever you want.

What do you think Jack does?

He hops off the rock wall and tries to make it look less deliberate. Hiccup's drawing, but he notices.

"Don't. That guy will take all your money."

"But I've been watching and it's not that hard. I'm smarter than these dumbasses. I can win it back." He rocks back on his heels, a smile on his face. There's dandelion fluff on his beanie. Seeds float through the air.

"You're fucking crazy." Hiccup shakes his head, realizes that he just said a line from the song he's listening to.

Jack runs over to the magician, bets twenty pounds, and loses it all.

Hiccup doesn't look up when he comes sulking back. "Who's the dumbass now?"

"Shut up." Sighing, he lays his head in Hiccup's lap. Now he's a human table. Used to balance a sketchbook with blackened pages.

Hot wind blows over them, behind them, through them. Snaking its way around Jack's splayed fingers and Hiccup's unruly hair. Fifteen more minutes of silence. Then Hiccup finishes drawing the theatre. He leans over Jack. Let's his hair dangle for a few seconds. Tickling the pale cheeks and sunken eyelids. He kisses Jack mouth-to-mouth style, like he's performing CPR on this poor American bastard.

Another slow session. Lips move and mold, parting just long enough for breath. Hiccup shoves his tongue in. Jack gags a little and holy crap, holy crap. Jack has a gag reflex.

Hiccup's eyes light up as he shoves it even deeper. They keep it up until Hiccup says his neck hurts. They break away, threads of spit strung from top to bottom lip.

"Wow…" Jack blinks a few times. "That was deep. You're tongue's huge."

"Not as huge as my cock."

He says it with such seriousness. Scratching his head and looking at the crowd of people. Jack can't help but laugh.

"I'm being completely serious."

"I know, I know." Tears stream down Jack's face. "That's why I'm laughing. You're just so fucking awkward, man."

"I know."

Hiccup knows a lot of things. He knows how to draw perspective and foreshortening. He knows how to make an accurate map of pretty much anything and he knows how to calm people down. He knows how to skateboard and skydive and climb. He also knows what makes him happy. In fact, he has a list.

Hiccup's list of happy things: Walks in the middle of December. In the morning, of course, just as the sun is peaking, and the clouds blanket the sky. Estate sales at rich mansions. Wealthy old men are the best dead people. They open their houses to the public, the public being Hiccup's neighborhood. He loves to look for nice paintings. Finding great deals. Pirate paintings and vampire drawings, and satin flowers in crystal vases. Old Nikons that may or may not still work. Taking pictures with one that does work. Realizing the past is still relevant, still functioning, and smiling because things still matter. At least, they do to him. Poppies under frost are nice. White roses tinged with ice are nice, too. Right beneath the windowsill, sagging when he open's the window to water them. Petals fall into the snow bank. And then he realizes that his body is a snow back. Pure, untouched. Until the one he hates lies down and makes snow angels. Or until he make snow angels by himself. Flapping his arms, a bird going nowhere. Digging into the ground with his eyes on the sky. Legs numb. The snowflakes clouding his pupils. Spiderwebbing, all intricate-like. Diamond patterns, lace and figure eights in the ice.

Yeah, a lot of things make Hiccup happy. Right now, a skinny America in a beanie makes him happy.

They fall in line, wait for The Globe to open its doors.

The floor is pretty authentic. Open, covered in dirt, and full of people. You have to stand, elbow to elbow. But no one cares because this is awesome. The rabble is happy, Hiccup is happy, and Jack is on top of the world. Such proximity, such heat. He sounds like the doge mean now, how wonderful. But he really is close to Hiccup, in an even more intimate way than before. Arms stick together, sweaty from the sun. Clothes brush, fingers tingle. Jack wiggles in front and leans back against Hiccup. His head fits perfectly between those beautiful Norwegian pecs.

This will be his seat for the rest of the show. Tucked between Viking muscles, his mouth thrown open with laughter. The Tempest is a funny, creepy, entertaining, wild mess. Colin Morgan moves like an acrobat. A girl with flowers in her hair falls in love with the first man she has ever seen. And he is a gorgeous man. Fitting, because she is a gorgeous girl. A plane flies overhead mid-performance. The actors glance up for a few seconds while the crowd laughs. A man drinks beer from a glass bottle and sprays droplets all over the unsuspecting heads.

Jack's list of words that describe The Tempest: magic, mystery, waves, foam, stranger, love, master, slave, dream, storm, beauty, humor, subtle, terror, hope.

He cries when Ariel asks, "Do you love me, master?"

Hiccup wipes his tears without looking. "You okay?"

Jack nods. "Yeah. I just get how he feels."

And that's all he'll say about that.

After the show ends and the actors bow with hands clasped and sweat all over their skin, Hiccup drags Jack out with one hand. He's like a bulldozer. Pushing through the crowd, constantly checking over his shoulder to make sure Jack is still there.

He is.

He's always there.

He's there when they burst out of the doors. People whisper and shout about the play and about their evening plans. Above them, starry darkness. Below them, concrete stacked atop an ancient river. They go to a pub right next to the theater.

Dark, candlelit, and brimming with that privileged feeling. Like only the best dine here. Jack feels out of place. Hiccup just rolls his eyes and gets them both a pint. There's an actual restaurant upstairs, full of fancy tables and fancy tables. They'll stay down here. Where the rooms are crowded and the tables are maybe of heavy wood.

Jack is a lightweight. Put a couple of drinks in him and he's reeling. He's busy rambling to a guy that is, unbeknownst to him, the actor that plays Ferdinand. Hiccup gulps his beer and smiles. Then Prospero walks by and Jack's on his feet.

"Excellent job, sir! You did an excellent job!"

Hiccup almost chokes.

Look at this kid. Red cheeks and swaying body that sloshes beer all over himself. His beanie's slipping, his shirt's staining. Adorable little shit. Hiccup watches him move. Like water, pressed up against the wood and rushing over the grain. Arms stretched out over miles and miles of empty glasses and melting ice cubes. He twists when someone calls out to him, his whole body moving in separate parts. Is he an owl? A puppet? Hiccup doesn't know. Hiccup doesn't care. He just watches over the top of his glass. His teeth clink and cold shoots up jaw. Pinpricks of pain that make his eyes wide. But in a good way. Drinking does nothing to him. He can drink his weight in beer and then say the alphabet backwards.

Okay, maybe he can't drink his weight in alcohol. He's got a lot of weight packed into such a thin frame. All this hard, red muscle bunched up like straws. Tan skin stretched over abs and pecs and a gluteus maximus like no other.

Jack creeps up behind him, rests his chin on those broad shoulders. "I'm gonna eat that ass. Eat it all up." He snaps his teeth and growls.

Hiccup feels the growl. It grows inside that pale stomach, shakes the ribcage and comes purring out. Some kind of messed up plant. A tiger lily, maybe. Feral and pathetic and desperately trying to look cool. But everyone knows it's not really a tiger. It's a delicate flower, blushing and hiding behind a label.

Yeah, that's Jack. A tiny blushing flower.

His breath reminds Hiccup of Slaughterhouse-Five, like "mustard gas and roses".

Somehow, Jack has swapped drinks. Now he holds a glass of vodka.

Hiccup snatches it away. "I think you've had enough alcohol for today."

Jack laughs, tears running down his face. "That 'minds me of tha' Toy Story scene. Ya know, when Woody find Buzz and he's all 'I think you have 'nough tea for today' and then Buzz is all 'I'm Mrs. Nesbitt'!"

What an idiot. He devolves into laughter. Hiccup's lap is a good place to devolve.

He rolls his eyes and takes a sip of vodka. "You're a real mess, Jack. A real asshat."

His smile is almost pathetic. It's so tiny and cute, pushing through the tears. "But I'm your asshat."

Another eye roll. "Yeah, yeah. I guess you are."

It's still a starry night when they leave. Jack stumbles through the cobblestone alleys, singing Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of his lungs.

And poor Hiccup plays babysitter, shushing him and clutching his wrist. They're behind an empty office building. River to the left, dark windows to the right. Thank the gods no one is around. Hiccup leads him under the concrete awning, away from the sudden rain. "People are sleeping. Come on, let's play a game."

"A game?" He reminds Hiccup of a puppy.

And Hiccup's a cat. Irritated, sarcastic, sleepy and so not dealing with your shit right now.

"Yeah, a game. It's called, 'who can be quiet the longest'? One, two, three, go."

Jack nods. Slowly, heavily. He's a bobblehead now. A puppy and a bobblehead. Leaning against a pillar, he looks up through those thick eyelashes. So fucking thick and black and full of raindrops. Slick skin even whiter than usual beneath the lights. They're bright and fake. Look at him, his skin tight jeans sticking to his chicken legs. Arms dotted with goosebumps and his eyes glassy. Bright red flush all over his face. He looks more stoned than drunk, but he always look sort of stoned anyways.

Hiccup takes out his iPod and sticks the bud in Jack's ear. The other one in his. Foreheads touching, they listen to Rhythm of the Night. The kind of song that relaxes and exhilarates you at the same time.

Jack nods again. "Don't worry, Hicky. I'll be quiet. Starting now."

And he kisses Hiccup with his eyes half-shut. Slow at first, heat building in the air. Jack slides his leg between Hiccup's thighs, grinding and moaning into his mouth. He breaks away, licking his lips.

"Jack… you're drunk. I don't wanna take advantage of you."

A soft, intoxicated smile. "You're not, man. S'okay, s'okay. I'm totally sober."

"You're drunk off your ass, you pathetic piece of dryer lint. Look at yourself, you're all over the place."

Shrug. "Okay. But I can't look at myself, that's inpossible, I mean umpossible…impassible, implausible, un—" He throws up all over Hiccup's shoes.

It's seamless, really. The way he goes from talking to violent puking without even batting an eye. Hiccup stands stone still. Motionless as Jack heaves and clutches his shirt with both hands.

Hiccup sighs. Damn this is his nice shirt. One that he bought in Norway and wore every day for a week before Astrid shouted at him to wash his frickin' clothes. Whatever. Now it's covered in pukey handprints. But he doesn't care. He stands and strokes Jack's hair beneath the beanie. Whispers, "It's okay, it's gonna be okay."

When he stops, everything smells like vodka and watermelon. Jack had a slice before the play.

He pops back up, groaning and blinking in the light. "H-Holy shit."

"I agree. We need to get you to bed."

Shaking his head, he staggers over to the pillar. "No… I wanna party with my Hicky…" His words fade into a slurred mess.

"Well, I want to go to bed. No partying tonight." He turns his back to Jack. "Hop on. It's the premium Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third Nighttime Tour of London. Gods, that was a mouthful."

Jack crosses his arms, looks so offended. "I can walk. I am not a flamingo."

"Don't know what that means, but get on already."

"But I'm not—"

"Yeah, I know. Too bad." He grabs Jack by the ass and hoists him up. No more protest. Just quiet rambling about flamingoes and moons and tiger lilies.

A piggyback through London. Free of charge. Hiccup walks and watches the cars zip by. Jack's still talking. Hiccup hasn't been listening.

"And then she died."

Stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk. "What?"

"My sister. She died. Haven't you been listening?"

Hiccup thinks about it, then shakes his head. "I'm gonna be honest. No."

Jack's too drunk to care. "I'll start again. It's a short story. We were on a lake, in the middle of winter, skating. And then the ice broke and I tried to save her but she fell through and died. Yep, she died. Just like that."

"I'm, uh, I'm sorry."

"I know."

A few seconds of silence. Another car comes and goes. Blaring headlights, squealing tires. The moon is half-full tonight.

Jack starts playing with Hiccup's braid. As if nothing ever happened.

"They're little caterpillars. Little furry caterpillars that I just wanna eat. Is that weird? I don't know. Is that weird?"

"Please don't eat my hair."

Too late for Hiccup. Jack sucks on the braids and sniffs his locks and licks the back of his neck.

Should he be disgusted or aroused? Hiccup can't decide. In the end, he's neither. He's just Hiccup.

Two minutes after six and Jack is wide awake.

Last night was crazy, weird, exciting, any other cliché word he can think of. Can't remember much. A candlelit room, overflowing glasses, a freckled hand always near, fluorescent lights, broken kiss, soft braids, and soft sheets. Someone set him down in the bunk bed. Softly, slowly, so quiet he never heard a thing. He wakes up when the clouds start to break. Hiccup's curled up next to him, muttering in his sleep.

"But you don't have teeth…okay, Toothless…okay…"

"Toothless?" Jack props himself up on one elbow. "Who's Toothless?" He boops Hiccup's nose a few times. Nope, he's not waking up.

So he traces the freckles and fingers the brown locks. Such a beautiful boy. Without his glasses, he looks younger. More innocent. There are faint lines around his eyes. Small patches of freckles and sunburn. Oh look, he has a scar near his chin. How cute. Jack touches it a few times.

"A battle scar?" He nestles closer. "You're so much braver than me, you know that? You carried me, didn't you? In the middle of the night. And you took care of me, even though you hardly know me. Because we've only just met. A few days isn't long. But I want to know you better. So much better."

His hangover makes it hard to talk. Each word a pulsing in his brain. Lights burn even when he closes his eyes. One of his roommates snores and it sounds like a hammer striking wood. The couple above him are always having sex, so he's allowed to fool around. Right?

Screw what's right. He scoffs and goes in for a kiss. The kiss he wanted last night.

Hiccup talks against his lips. "You have teeth… silly Jack… Jack?" Eyes pop open. All he sees is a blur of white and blue and red. White hair. Blue hoodie. Red cheeks and red eyes. "Holy crap, your eyes are like tiny tomatoes. Don't you have a hangover?"

"Of course I do. But I don't care. I'm in the mood for a make out, maybe a handjob, and a cuddle."

Hiccup pulls the sheets tighter and bites his lip. "Hmm. Who's giving the handjob?"

"I'll give you one."

Squint in the creeping sunlight. Eyes still full of sleep, his body warm beneath the covers. He lets Jack sit in agonized silence. Then, "Deal."

Jack puts on his best stereotypical Southern drawl. "Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition."

"The hell?"

Jack shrugs. "It's an American thing. We say it when we're happy."

"You serious?"

"Yep."

Hiccup knits his eyebrows. "You are so full of it. And when Norwegians think people are full of it, we say 'you damn son of horsefucker' or 'you horsefucker' if we wanna get really personal."

"Ha, you're hilarious."

"I know."

Now he's kissing Jack. Grabbing his face with both hands, vicelike, and pulling him close. Legs tangle in the hot sheets. Cracks in between the bunk beds let in arrows of light. Yellow, dusty, alighting on their skin. It starts as it always does, slow, deep kisses that pop their jaws. Jack can hear their bones moving. Inside, everything sounds muffled. Underwater. They're submarines beneath the coarse covers. Above, unknown people. Below, floors and floors of faces and hands and feet. They might as well all be invisible. Jack is wrapped up in Hiccup. His hands move all over the lower back, where the tattoo is and the two white scars on the bony vertebrae. Warm skin rough to touch. He goes lower and grabs Hiccup's ass, massaging it, clawing it with fingernails made of glass and cocaine. And other hipster things, too.

But no, he really did do cocaine for a while. Right after his sister died, when the world was a lot darker and freckles looked like pieces of dirt.

Now they're stars. He digs deeper into them, moaning into Hiccup's mouth. Shit, he's so sensitive. He's such a bottom. Incapable of topping without descending into whimpers and squeals. He lets the moans come, louder and louder. Hiccup makes a satisfied sound and kisses harder.

And he bites Jack's bottom lip, letting his teeth rake over the chapped skin. Poor little American. He thinks he's pounding Hiccup's ass, but it's barely noticeable. Just a comfortable kneading of flesh. It takes a lot more to make Hiccup moan.

But Jack is full of pressure points. Hiccup trails kisses down the throat, the soft skin stretched across the collarbone. His hands go to Jack's ass and now he's the one grabbing and clawing. Jack gasps and arches his back. Plenty of space between spine and mattress. Hiccup keeps playing with that pasty ass, moving to sit atop the grey boxers. He's already bare-chested. London is too damn hot for a Norwegian.

"Uh, you're hoodie's cute, but it's kind of in my way. Take it off?"

Jack squirms beneath him. "I-I can't."

"Is this distracting you?" He spreads the cheeks and grinds against the bulge.

"S-Shit!" Another arch, his legs spazzing. "Take it off for me, fuck, just take it off."

"All right." It's hard to undress Jack when he keeps moving. Those vulnerable movements. Flinches and squirms and twitches like he's high on electricity. Hiccup manages to pull the hoodie off. He folds it.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Jack's voice is breaking. "Y-You're killing me!"

"Hold on. I don't want your nice hoodie to get all wrinkled."

A shuddering breath. "Asshole."

"Oh, that reminds me." He lays the sweatshirt on the pillow and goes back to playing with Jack's ass. No progression. Just hard and fast. And he grinds against the grey boxers and kisses Jack's chest.

"Ohhhhh, ffffffuckkkk." Jack's eyes roll. Legs cross behind Hiccups back.

It's so tempting. They're already in position for some mindblowing sex. All they'd have to do is—no, no. They agreed on one rule. No sex. Hiccup didn't come here to bang. Neither did Jack.

Right?

Right?

The friction stops. Hiccup groans. Hell, he's so frickin' manly. But sometimes he's such a nerd. How can someone be the biggest dork ever and the hottest piece of ass all at once?

He kisses Jack's forehead. "How about that handjob?"

"Oh, yeah…"

He blinks. Hovering inches over Jack's face, his breaths ragged. "Unless you don't want to."

"No, man. I wanna make you feel good. But I was thinking… I just…" He sighs. "Let's make it a blowjob instead."

"Fine with me."

They move around the bed. Hiccup on his back, legs stretched out straight. Hasn't got his prosthetic on, obviously. That's somewhere under the bunk bed. Breathing slows as Jack comes over. Bent over him, he pulls out Hiccup's cock. Huge and hot and almost hard.

The laugh is all scattered and nervous. "It's a lot bigger up close. I don't know if I can—"

"Come on, you Americans deepthroat hotdogs bigger than this."

"Hot dogs are nasty, man."

Hiccup blushes and pulls at his braids. "I think this metaphor is falling flat on its face."

"Yeah…" Just go for it, idiot. "Fuck it." Jack goes in, forcing all of it in his mouth. Till the tip touches the back of a scratched throat. Gagging but still going. The tears are hot. What the hell, he can't do this. No, no, no. Keep going. Crack your neck, your jaw, your wrists. Take it all at once. Move faster, faster, grazing it with your teeth until he moans.

Hiccup heaves a sigh. "Gods you're good."

Jack responds with more tongue. Another heavy groan. The cheap mattress squeaks with every moan, groan, sigh. Hiccup claws at the sheets, toes curling. What do you feel, you Norwegian kid? Heat in your stomach and thighs and brain. Spasms in your fingers. White lights criss-crossing your face and suddenly you're painted. There are festivals all over the world. Ones where you listen to house music and throw paint at each other. Being high helps. This feels like being high, doesn't it, you filthy art student? Those days in the sex clubs, tripping on ecstasy and rolling with a stranger. You like sex. You love it. Aggression buried in your bones. Americans are supposed to be easy lays. You saw him creeping in the shadows. Hated him but secretly loved him. And you don't even know him. But he's hot and skinny and short and the biggest shit you have ever met. The biggest little shit ever. This, this right here. This feels amazing. Gods, does it feel amazing.

Hiccup's mouth is wide open. Nothing comes out. Eyes scrunched up, fingernails in his palm. There's no way in Hell Jack can swallow.

He manages something. "I-It's fine, Jack. You don't have to."

So he listens, backs off, and lets the cum cover his chest. Hiccup rides it out, still silent. Eyes still shut tight.

"Gods!" Spent, he lies there breathing hard. "Shit, Jack, you're… Jack?"

"Hold on a sec." Scabbed knees up and bent, he holds his cock. He's gotta get himself off, too. It's fast. Hiccup watches with interest.

"You can't even jerk yourself off without moaning."

"Jerk."

"Isn't it funny how many ways you can say jerk?" Green eyes narrow in the sunlight. "You can call me a jerk or you can jerk yourself off. It can be a noun or a verb. Interesting."

Relief at last. Wrists pop when he leans back, stretches his stiff neck. His hands are sticky. "You can never say I'm more annoying than you. Seriously, you never shut up."

"At least I'm not some, uh, some skinny hipster." The blush goes down his neck.

"That's not even an insult, you narwhal."

"And how am I a narwhal?"

"You're from Norway. You got ice up there and shit. There must be some narwhals around there, too." He curls up next to Hiccup. Wet, tattooed body still shivering. The moon cycle dotted with sweat.

"You're so cold."

"Am I?" Jack grins like a skeleton. "All my energy's gone. Why you gotta be so draining?"

"Sorry." Long arms wrap around him. Squeeze the little American half to death. "I guess it's a little much, all this raw Viking-ness. No wonder you're tired."

Jack laughs like a skeleton. "My hangovers are so weird. I get sick, then horny, and now I'm sleepy as hell."

"Then take a nap. We've got plenty of time to do stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Tourist stuff, and other stuff, too." Hiccup hugs him close. Careful not to break his little American skeleton. Every sentence punctuated by a kiss here, a cuddle there. "We can go to Trafalgar Square and sit on the lions. Walk to Buckingham. Go to a bookstore, go to a club, maybe. And go pub hopping, yeah we'll do that. And take walks and buy stupid shit like kitchen magnets and keychains. There are so many places we haven't seen, so many places you haven't groped me in."

It's a fading laugh. "Ha ha."

"You know it's true. You're always so handsy. Even now. Do you really have to pinch my nipples right now?"

"It helps me sleep."

Eye roll. Whatever. This kid is tired and drooling, let's give him a break. Body all bent up, eyes sunken into the back of his skull. He's a too small canvas covered in too big drawings. Some overexcited artist screwed him over. Packed him full of lines and shapes that come spilling out. All over the sheets. Moon flowers, Peter Pans, and quotes about death. His beanie hangs over the bed. But in a few minutes he's whimpering about his "security blanket" and Hiccup has to put it back on his head.

Big baby.

The morning is lost to a couple of snoring assholes. Red hot sun climbs higher in the sky and the headlines continue to talk about burning Britain and its boiling Bobbies. They literally sleep the day away. Hour after hour piled together, till the air is heavy and Hiccup can't breathe. He opens the window as much as he can. It only goes a quarter of the way. No one has been in the room all day, except for him and Jack. The whispers were only his imagination. Jack is dead to the world and this room is stifling. He'll only be gone for a minute. So Hiccup wanders the halls and sits on the fire escape, wondering if Clink78 ever held high security prisoners.

Fifteen minutes spent staring into a trash can.

Jack heaves over the side of the bed. Feeling horny and nauseous at the same time sucks ass. Sucks so much ass. He heard Hiccup leave, felt the shift in weight when he stood up. But he's been so nice to Jack. The Norwegian nerd deserves a break.

How long can someone puke up nothing? Apparently the answer is fifteen minutes and three seconds.

"Finally!" Groaning, he rolls onto his back. Runs his hands all over the pale skin and tattoos. "I'll never drink again, I'll never ever drink again. Who the hell am I kidding? Of course I will."

You just gotta learn your limit, Jack. You just gotta be smart.

Jack be careful.

Jack think quick.

Jack will never again be sick.

Moderation has never his greatest skill. The little kid, scraped knees and cold toes, had too much fun. They told him to wear his socks and never climbs trees. But he did it anyways and broke his arm more than once. The teenager, loneliness and a couple of tries, had too much fun. They told him to wear his uniform and never do drugs. But he did them anyways and had to clench his teeth. The adult is here now. Same scraped knees, same loneliness, the only difference being his sunken eyes and a smidge of responsibility. They told him to wear his business suit and never be mistaken for a vagrant. But he dresses how he wants and if people think he's homeless then who cares?

London cares. Their spikes make it impossible to get a good night's sleep. So he did something, the same thing he did in France and Germany and Spain and everywhere else he goes. Everything leading back to America and the first time he did it.

Back in the States, it was summer and it was hot and he was a broke loser looking for a way out. Out of what he didn't know. But he could sense it around him, some kind of cage. He bumped into the bars every so often. And his parents were forever mourning the daughter that drowned. And Jack was forever blaming himself, even though it had been years.

Jack's guide to running away:

There is no guide. There are no steps. This isn't The Adventures of Huck Finn, you don't need to fake your own death. Just get some money and leave. So Jack broke into some rich dude's house in the middle of the night and stole his shit. It was dangerous. It was fun.

So he did it again. And again. And he never got caught because he's faster than the wind. That's why he's here, staying at some youth hostel instead of sleeping on the curb. Because he steals and no one ever knows. They told him not to be a vagrant. He's not one. He's a thief and a conman. A skinny, wannabe hipster/conman/thief. His hands are the stickiest in the land.

Maybe that's because he jerked himself off earlier today and never washed them. Stupid, idiot Jack. He groans and pulls at his eyelids. Why is he thinking about this now? All this backstory shit, all this useless guilt. Hiccup just had to leave him alone with his thoughts. That hot piece of freckled ass that makes Jack feel so safe. They haven't even known each other for that long. But he's stronger than he looks and he's stronger than Jack.

For once, Jack doesn't have to hide behind himself. No more sarcasm. No more asshole banter. He's afraid of something. What is it?

"Being alone."

"You're up." Hiccup's back, shutting the door behind him. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah, I'm not all that cold anymore."

"Good." He leans against the top bunk. "So, you wanna—"

"I want to tell you something, Hiccup." Sitting up, he looks like a scared kid. "You took such good of care me last night, you carried me on your back and you… you were just nice. And you don't even know me, not really. You know my body and I know yours. But I want you to know more. 'Cause I feel like you deserve that. I mean, we've been screwing around for like two weeks. Doing stupid shit like taking walks and eating fish and chips like a bunch of dumbass tourists. And I know, I buy you a lot of useless shit and I give you some of that pot I stash in my boxers—"

"You stash it where?"

"Not important. But anyways, I just feel like you should know something about me. About my life."

Hiccup never takes his eyes off him. He sits on the bed. Slowly, surely, suddenly wondering where this is going. "Uh, okay. You're not, like, a murderer or something, right?"

Jack stares, eyes blank. "Yes, I am."

"You're not fucking serious right now. I mean, seriously, there's no way…"

"It's true." He gives a dramatic sigh and raises his hand. "I killed a man. With this thumb."

"But you're a good person, I can't beli—wait a second." Hiccup squints. "You stupid little shit. That's a quote from Ratatouille."

"Yeah, you got me." He shrugs. "So I'm not a murderer. But I am somewhat of accomplished thief."

Hiccup's still laughing. "Oh okay, sure you are."

"I really am. That's what I wanted to tell you. All this money I have, I only have it 'cause I steal it and sometimes I sell shit and sometimes I work the black market."

He keeps laughing. "Okay, okay, okay. I get it, you're a badass."

"I'm being completely serious."

"You're never serious. Come on, I know you're kidding."

"Hiccup." Jack grabs his face with both hands. Their noses inches from touching. "It's true. I swear on my sister's grave it's true."

"Jack…"

He tells Hiccup the whole story, from his sister's death to the day he was leaning against the no-smoking sign. It's not very long. When he's finished, he puts his beanie on and pulls it over his eyes.

"Are you sorry you met me?"

"No." It's an immediate answer. "Not at all."

"So what do you think?"

"Of what?"

Jack shrugs. "Of me, of my stupid story, of what I do."

Now Hiccup shrugs. "I'm not really sure. No, wait, I am sure. I think you're an awesome person. I think you're funny and sexy and annoying as hell. But I don't think you're a criminal. I think you're story's real. It's sad, it just… it makes sense. And what you do is what you do."

"That's it?"

"That's it. Now come here. I leave tomorrow and we can't spend the whole day moping."

"So you're cool with me? You don't feel mad or betrayed or any of that shit?"

"Nope." He pulls Jack close and closes his eyes. "Not at all."

And then they fall into the silence. The kind that early morning brings. When you're tired and empty and you feel all alone. But when you roll over, there is someone besides you.

Clink78 looks smaller on the outside. It looks boring and dingy and full of people that have nothing to say. But inside, there is life. There is stained glass that casts shadows on the floor and people from all over the world and shitty bathrooms and bright fluorescent lights and assholes and lovers and a million different stories you will never hear again.

Hiccup sits on the steps, his duffle bag beside him, his sketchbook in his lap. The same sort of image from before. Except now, Jack sits next to him. Sideways, head against his shoulder.

Hiccup's waiting for a taxi.

Jack smokes and flicks the cigarette butts onto the concrete. "So, what're you gonna do?"

"I don't know."

"You gonna get in the taxi when it comes or what?"

"I said 'I don't know'."

Another flick. "But your parents are expecting you home and you have to go back to school soon…"

"I know!" Hiccup rolls a cigarette beneath his foot. "I'm just not sure. Your offer is very tempting, but you didn't even give me time to think about it."

Jack laughs through clenched teeth. "Yeah, I kinda sprung it on you."

"You're damn right your sprung it on me. It's a hard decision." Starts playing with his braids. "I like following the law, I really do. But you're right, we could make a ton of money if we do this…"

"Of course I'm right. And you've never been to America." Jack stands up. "Think about it, we fix up a truck and take a road trip across the States, except we'll be doing more than sightseeing. I've conned my way across the country before. And this way, we can stick together and make money and have a damn fun time doing it." He waggles his eyebrows. "There are still some things we haven't done, if you know what I mean."

"You can't use sex to bribe me into becoming a conman like you."

"I think I can."

"Well, you really can't."

He sighs and paces up and down the steps. "Fine. I can't force you to do anything."

"Of course you can't. That's why this decision is entirely up to me."

"I know it is."

"And that's why I'm going to do what I want to do." Hiccup adjusts his glasses. "I think it's about time I did that."

"Yes, yes, I agree."

"And that's why I'm coming with you."

"I understand and I'll respect your…" Jack's eyes widen. "You're coming with me?"

"I'm coming with you."

"I, uh, what?"

"I'm coming with you, Jack."

When he stands on the lower step, he and Jack are the same height. He sighs and stares and holds those pasty hipster hands, thinking about how stupid they both are. Jack's offer came late last night, as they were walking past the river and lights. What was he supposed to say? Here was this guy he met two weeks ago. A short American with a klepto personality and a blinding smile. And there was Hiccup. Tall, awkward, and full of adrenaline. He likes danger, he really does. And Jack's life is dangerous. Jack himself, not so much. But that life, man. That life. To go wherever you want and see whatever you want to see. Hiccup could do that forever.

So he grabs Jack's hands and kisses his forehead beneath the hot sun. The sun that's been baking Britain all summer.

"We have so much more to do together."

Jack smiles. "And we have so many more opportunities for PDA."

Hiccup rolls his eyes. "Dumbass American."

"Dickhead Norwegian."

They leave the hostel hand in hand, off down the sloping road. Maybe they'll go to LHR tonight, maybe not. They've got nothing but time.

And when the taxi comes, no one is waiting for it.


End file.
